


The Sharpest Tounges and The Starriest Eyes

by sonthejay



Category: Phandom
Genre: ? - Freeform, Abuse, Bullying, Kissing, Multi, Rebellion, Teenager AU, War, dystopian au, possible sex, self harm mention, sexual abuse mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:03:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonthejay/pseuds/sonthejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this world, there are wonderful places for the black and the white. Where do the grey go? The colourful?</p><p>Dan Howell’s life is arbitrary, Phil Lester’s is dull. Both refuse to fit in. When they are chosen for an elite program, they feel they are complete with their task. Everything is not what it seems however. Where hapiness is a weapon, there is a paper thin line to be crossed. They quickly realize that people like themselves walk that line, and that their friends and rivals may be considered something more than celebrities…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharpest Tounges and The Starriest Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer// I have no connection to Daniel Howell, Phillip Lester, or any real people represented in this text. I do not claim any relationships are real or possible, nor that the sexualities of all the characters apply in real life. This is not factual. This writing will be removed or edited if those portrayed wish it to be.

Man do I hate dirt.

I hate the overly earthy taste of the traces on my tongue, the sensation of its dampness as it clings to my palms. The stains I know it’s going to leave as it soaks through the knees of my fashion backward overalls. Dirt, to be frank, sucks. I dislike it a hell of a lot more when I get up and personal by falling on my ass (in this case, my face) into it. It just adds to its lovely reputation as I wipe it off my arms and spit frantically into the mud. I can’t blame it though, it isn’t the only reason everyone thinks I’m a useless twat.

I would love to say my peers began to laugh at me, call me some clever synonym of ‘freak’ and kick some more soil into my face. Sadly, that would require some form of a twisted sense of humour. You can’t describe something as 'twisted’ if it doesn’t exist. My co-workers have the spunk of the shit I just fell into, maybe they could compete with the cattle’s personality one day.

“On yer feet boy. People to be fed.” I stumble forward, getting back up I mutter a “yes sir” to the supervisor and begin to trudge on through the filth. I feel like a child, always have. My lack of talent with agriculture is known legion wide, and the way I’m treated makes it show. I am also the 'runt of the litter’, one hundred-forty pounds soaking wet and a measly six feet compared to the average 6"6 of my division. This is the reason I’m a runner. Clearing the seven kilometres of fields countless times daily has only attributed to making me a lithe gazelle in a troop of rhinos. Sometimes I wish I was born a physical labour loving buffoon, especially as the scent of rain fills the air and I’m still at least ten minutes away. The crowds begin to thin and soon enough I’ve jogged myself into a three kilometre stretch of seemingly abandoned field. The atmosphere darkens further, I can taste the moisture in the air. As I run further, I feel that dumb sinking feeling. I tell myself it’s the wilderness getting to me, but as I spot a coyote I freeze up. I continue running, but know the animals around here are starving. Whatever, they don’t eat humans…

They do however, probably want the solid ten pounds of boar meat in my thermal backpack that I’m supposed to deliver.

That’s how you’d find me now. Sprinting wildly through fields of top soil infused horse shit. The nasty damp turf spraying all the way up to my neck. I felt my joints twist as I try not to impale myself on the rusty tools left scattered around. I would love to say I was scanning my surroundings to plan my badass weaponized canine slaughter spree, but in reality my inner dialogue was so much better.

“FuckFuckFuckFuckFuckadickfuckfuckfuck””

I feel my legs burning more than ever now. Heart pumping, I find myself at the final stretch. I leap over obnoxiously sharp farming equipment, bent on skewering my ass. I see the beginning of cement and the opening to the barn, and exhale. With a couple more striders I glide forwards. On this day Dankind received a grim reminder, as to why he sucks ass. I topple forward on my too long legs and catch myself, straining my wrists and scraping up my forearms. The friction shreds the skin on me knees, and I let my head hit the ground in a controlled and absolutely fucking pissed manner.

I collect myself, feeling a white hot rage as I approach the dull supervisor. His eyes are glassy, like a blissfully ignorant sow. I give him the meat and ask politely for a trip back on the transport tractor with the rest of this division. “Sorry lad, I err… Can’t let outsiders… Erm… Hitch a ride.” He mutters. Here I am, covered in filth, scrapes, soaked and bleeding from delivering his shit and I can’t get on a fucking cattle transporter will all these assholes. I walk away. I’m in a corner, I unfold the parchment from the meat.

I have faced malice, a strong memory of a girl seeing my fly undone and saying it was disgusting. I never wrapped my mind around the word choice 'disgusting’. Creepy? Weird? Calling me a dumbass? Whatever, but disgusting? Always thought she was strange seeing that it was a slight view of clean underwear to set off the use of disgusting. I decide to make the word disgusting describe me, for the poor girls sake.

My had is coated in gravel, manure and blood. With a couple quick swipes a smear it into the meat to make a ’;3’ face. Will I probably get asked tomorrow to make the run again? Yes. Will making them have to cancel lunch be worth it? Fuck yes. If I get caught and sent for five to ten lashes for the waste of food will it be worth it? Hell fucking yes.

As the cattle tractor begins to leave, I run and hop on a tool compartment. I tangle myself on the dirty wooden slats and the rusted metal bars. It sucks but hey, I’m showering for at least a half hour tonight already. Better than trudging through fields of hungry carnivores. As the truck picks up pace, I hope the supervisor thinks I’m out in the rain beaten and dirty. Guilt might serve the ass right.

It’s eleven thirty at night when I finally toss my towel into the laundry and get started on my french essay. Nothing hard, but dull and already done countless times. “Je mappelle Daniel James Howell” I decide to write in English, then scan and put it through an auto translator later. Cheating is my signature move, ever since my teachers have started using bisexuality as the perfect incentive for hating me.

“My name is Daniel James Howell, I work in division 615 of crops and agriculture in the Physical Need Manufacturing Legion. I am a runner for message and small transport. If I could choose a legion and division, I would choose the one and only division 413 of acting and broadcast in the Entertainment and Mental Stimulation Legion.”

I relish in that second sentence, writing my long hidden thoughts in graphite. I sigh, erasing it to replace it. Everyone knows that age old essay question is not open ended, it has one and only one correct answer.

“If I could choose my legion and division, I would stay in my exact spot. I love my job, my supervisors and always feel fulfilled and happy at the end of my shift. I love the job I was born into, and would never dream of changing it.”

**Author's Note:**

> What it's like to be a Dan at 615 *colon* a face of sand.


End file.
